Other Kinds of Clouds Poetry Series: Clouds by Maek Modica
Despite the grief worn contrast, there have been many clouds of late. Some days they lay so thick and low around you there’s no escaping their vague embrace. And I’m not complaining, to be clear.
With their wash, thought builds upon thought. And those careful enough to listen to a cloud’s sorrow and concern know what I mean. Each faceted prism comprised can illuminate a majesty forgotten.
There are some clouds that bare no significance to us, seemingly. And yet some birth so much more. Some bear the weight some carry, those deeply wounded in whatever way. You can feel the very hazen-coly texture the down-trodden cast. Still, such strati can offer much.
Some whisper of song or fancy. Some echo of past lives, stricken with reverberations of desperate mantra. Yet, others can herald utter revelation. The mightiest have claimed eureka in the corporeal shadow of their personal nimbostratus.
Stark significance emerges plainly when one considers their sheer vastness. Such power, capable of astounding movement, motivation, maintenance. Sustaining and destroying. Cultivating and reshaping. Earth in song. A song in harmony.
Those who have been moved, in area or other senses, by hurricane or storm know this power. The Artists of surviving, consumed, often site their impact in recounted tales, While still embodying varying gleams of horror and awe.
Sometimes, when we’re surest, we can stand at their brink and just receive. Whole epics- ballads, and symphonies pouring joyously, Enriching our fountain brimmed.
What spills out from cloud yearns to be witnessed. And what beauty! Cataclysm and nurturance. Looming matron! Cascade into me.
I am open. Ready. Love me without restraint and I promise I will embody the breadth of your gifts. Not one refraction wasted.
Monumental an undertaking as it is, Once married, clouds lock limbs with us and stride sweetly near. Like Mary’s lambs, always sure to go where the wanderer takes them. Little did we know, we could shepherd the wafty things above us as those hooved upon our grounds.
In stillness, their inertia becomes apparent. They merely want most: to play. Every step with a cloud, and every gesture lends insight. And in perfect rhythm, harmonious oscillation, we glimpse their magnificence. Their very existence amazes. How does such a tightly bound symbiosis encompass multi-millions of constituents of wondrous variance?
And by that, what do I mean? Is it not marvelous to wonder at the force, the very intricate cascade of natural phenomena, that distinguished this molecule of weather minuta from another? Where have the components of this convergence journeyed prior? What reaches and depths have they witnessed? Endured? What pressures and folds have they followed? What energies have they excited, emitted? And I do declare, clouds are not shy. In trusting, they divulge the epitome of plethora. Their songs enchant, their thoughts inspire. Their voices, wise. Their words, true.